


primary senses

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Vampires, but like. psychic vampires???, have this weird little thing that's kind of soft, in which hermann gottlieb is secretly a huge ol' softie for newt, semi-non-linear narrative, they feed on memories lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: “Hi!” says Newton Geizsler.It’s dawn. 2023. The sun is rising blood red, casting bright shards of light across the never-silent city. The concrete beneath Herman’s feet is cold—he can feel it, taste it, smell it.Newton’s scent is one of mania. Ten cigarettes and a bottle of strong, unlabelled alcohol procured from the Russians, and the stale smell of sweat. The sour of terror lingers on him. There was a kaiju that nearly breached miracle mile last night.“Geiszler,” Hermann returns, measuredly. Flicks his cigarette. Stares a bit to the left of the sun. Senses the thrum of the other’s thoughts, ever-enticing.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Kudos: 22





	primary senses

**Author's Note:**

> this. is literally not connected to like anything else EVER. however i had to write it so. psychic/memory vampire!hermann au lol.

“Hi!” says Newton Geizsler. 

It’s dawn. 2023. The sun is rising blood red, casting bright shards of light across the never-silent city. The concrete beneath Herman’s feet is cold—he can feel it, taste it, smell it.

Newton’s scent is one of mania. Ten cigarettes and a bottle of strong, unlabelled alcohol procured from the Russians, and the stale smell of sweat. The sour of terror lingers on him. There was a kaiju that nearly breached miracle mile last night. 

“Geiszler,” Hermann returns, measuredly. Flicks his cigarette. Stares a bit to the left of the sun. Senses the thrum of the other’s thoughts, ever-enticing. 

The other sidles up to him, skin-close, breath even, heartbeat loud in Hermann’s ears as it always is, the scent of blood calling him. “Shouldn’t you be in the shade?” the biologist enquires. 

Hermann scoffs. “Do you believe everything you read?” he mocks, and takes a drag of the Marlboro. The smoke burns his throat; acrid and disgusting, but he can’t bring himself to throw it away. Too much effort. 

“Conversation starter,” the other says with a shrug. He’s said similar before. Probably will again; try and get a rise out of Hermann. 

“Hmm,” Hermann says, noncommittal, and pointedly controls his own breathing when the other slides down to crouch. “The ground is filthy,” he says, on reflex. 

Newton grins up at him. “Like you’d care,” he says, and snatches Hermann’s cigarette from him and tosses it into a puddle. Hermann doesn’t even bother to voice a complaint. 

“I wouldn’t,” Hermann says. 

Newton doesn’t speak for a moment, and then he says, “When were you sired?” which is a very inappropriate question and nearly sends Hermann stumbling over the ledge. 

He doesn’t seem to realise the faux pas he’s made, but he must, because he is—well. He is him. It would be impossible for him not to. He’s looking for an emotional reaction, then—trying to pick a fight. Hermann won’t give it to him. 

“1989,” he says. “I was two months old.” He is quite glad that vampirism doesn’t cause one to cease ageing; he doesn’t fancy the idea of having remained a two-month-old forever.

Newton’s silence this time is heavy, and it chafes. “Do not pity me,” Hermann snaps—a warning and a plea; hoping it sounds merely irritated. 

Instead, Newton rises; places a hand on his arm. “Let’s go in,” he says. “You’ll catch another death out here.” 

* * *

“Hi!” says Newton Geiszler. 

Hermann stiffens. The scent of hot, fresh blood, and powerful magic is heady in the air and it can only be Newton, this outpouring of memories that hum beneath his skin.

He’s readying for a hunt. For a chase. As if Newton were a highland buck, his for the chasing, to feed on the memories of.

He’s not. He is Hermann’s friend, and he is grinning cluelessly at him through short, fair lashes. 

“Newton,” Hermann grits out, digging nails into his palms to keep in control, “please leave.”

He could word it better—ought to have, really, but it’s just—just so much and he’s half-feral already with the scent of Newton this close to him and this is for his own safety. 

Newton’s expression shifts from _excited_ to _confused_ to _offended_. “You asked me to come,” he says. 

“And now I’m asking you to leave,” Hermann hisses. “ _Please_.”

“Fine,” Newton scowls, and turns on his heel, stomping away. 

They don’t speak. 

Obviously. 

Newton’s safety is far too important to him, and until he knows for certain he can control himself, he won’t risk it. Certainly, it does not hurt that Newton is, in his own way, keeping himself safe, as he appears to now hate Hermann and is, as such, unlikely to go anywhere near him. 

In theory. 

In practice the year is 2020, and the Shatterdome is in Hong Kong and Newton Geiszler has five new tattoos Hermann can see. His blood hums sweet beneath his skin and his heart beats a rapid tattoo in Hermann’s ears and his thoughts, hidden but only just barely out of reach for Hermann, sing sweet.

“Geiszler,” he says, shortly; because he may be a vampire, but he is not a beast without senses, “kindly cease your imitation of a limpet.”

The man in question has, upon sighting him, attached himself to Hermann in a way that is terrifyingly reminiscent of the aforementioned sea-dweller, and, had Hermann any blood of his own, he suspects that his arm would be tingling from the circulation being cut off by the other’s tight grip. As it is, he does not have blood, and he instead hits newton in the shins when the biologist refuses to comply. “Ow!” Geiszler hisses at him, glaring; offended. “Uncalled for!”

“Perfectly called for,” Hermann counters coolly. “Now. If you’d _please_ get out of my path, I have places to be and work to do.”

Geiszler doesn’t say anything to that; just lets him stride past him and that is. That is exactly what Hermann wanted. He wanted this. It is fine. He does not hear Geiszler’s heartbeat behind him.

Still, the other insists on pestering him in the following week; corners him daily just outside the cafeteria. Hermann would be amused if he weren’t annoyed at the other’s dedication to practically stalking him.

“Not stalking,” the other scowls, “I’m just—”

“Following me everywhere?” Hermann asks drily.

“Shut up,” the other hisses. “And for the _record_ , I’ve been trying to get you to stop and _talk_ so I can offer you dinner. As. As an offering of...peace. And kind of as an apology for. Well.” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Whatever I did. to make you not like me.”

Hermann frowns. “I don’t dislike you,” he says. “I am apathetic towards you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Newton says sarcastically. “Look, man, free food at my place. You know I’m a good cook. Yes or no? I’m going to make something with lots of meat if you do come.”

Hermann. considers it. It’s a rather...kind offer of Newton to make. Especially the meat bit, given he knows Newton has been vegetarian for years now—that this is an accommodation for him. That Newton doesn’t know it in full, but that he knows some of it. Knows of the vampirism at least, even if they’ve never really talked about it. Hermann suspects that Newton, as a magical being, can feel the difference between those who are and aren’t human.

In the end, he twists his lips into the semblance of a grimace and says, as if greatly put-upon, “If it’ll make you stop pestering me, then. Alright.”

The other beams at him. “Great,” he says, “I’ve got your email and your number so I’ll give you a call or shoot you an email or something.”

“Lovely,” Hermann says, and files away that piece of information in the vast library of his mind; wonders for the barest moment whether or not newton has been tempted to use that information before, and instead says, “I fear what you could do with that information.”

“Shush,” says Newton, and Hermann realises in a sudden jolt that _Geiszler_ has become _Newton_ and he doesn’t know when. 

He presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose, pushing his spectacles up, and sighs. “I’ve work to get to,” he says, in lieu of yelling at God, because he feels like it won’t help much to do _that_ right now, not when Newton, warm and smelling like he’s overzealously applied cologne, is standing a scant pace or two away from him.

“Sure thing, man,” Newton says, and makes finger-guns at him. “You get to that sexy, sexy, world-saving math of yours. i’ll tell you when dinner is. Byeeeeeeeeee.”

* * *

It’s hardly uncommon for them to eat together; Hermann suspects they’re both a bit lonely, here, in a facility where few understand them and even fewer would willingly spend time with them. _He_ certainly is—he won’t deny it. 

And Newton _is_ a fairly good cook, actually, and knows Hermann’s preferences. He supposes that’s what happens when one knows another for nearly ten years. 

“Thyme,” Hermann says, decisively, after the first bite. “Wild venison—I’m surprised you managed to find any. A young buck, I think, not old enough for his muscles to have hardened. Butter’s unsalted, and you’ve used Himalayan salt to make up for it.” He raises a brow. “How practically _decadent_.”

Newton shrugs single-shoulderedly across from him. “Managed to convince someone to smuggle me some venison,” he admits. “But, like, _worth_ it, because every single _fucking_ time I make anything with more than two ingredients you play Holmes and it’s fun to watch.”

Hermann exhales sharply in what could be called the approximation of a laugh. “Glad to see you take amusement in my condition,” he says drily.

“Still disappointed you can’t fly,” Newton says, “but I’ll deal. wine?”

“Yes, please,” Hermann says, and takes the proffered glass.

“Taste?” Newton asks, like he always does, eyes tracking Hermann’s movement; the bob of his throat. He always _is_ so _oddly_ intrigued with this, Hermann reflects.

He runs through it—pays more attention than he normally does to the flavour, letting it roll on his tongue and sink in, and then swallows; replies slowly. Newton’s eyes are locked on his; attentive.

“Incredible,” he says, not for the first time, and smiles wryly. “You really _can_ taste just about anything, huh.

Hermann shrugs. “Not everything,” he cedes, “but far better than you or a human.”

The makeshift table between them is small, and when Newton reaches out, his hand rests on Hermann’s arm; falls down to his hand. Hermann’s gaze flits to the palm, and then, a moment later, when his hand rolls over, the exposed inner wrist.

“What would _I_ taste like?” newton says, softly.

Hermann’s gaze sharpens, and he pulls away sharply. “Do _not_ ,” he says, “ _ever_ ask that of me again.”

Newton’s expression, only moments before almost gentle and wondering, has shuttered. _Good_ , Hermann thinks. _Maybe then he’ll have some_ sense. _The damned_ fool. He can smell his blood again; the quiet his of his thoughts, their contents unknown but calling out to him. Lord. Where’s his _composure?_

He lets out an—unnecessary, shaky—breath. “I ought to be going,” he says, stiffly. “Goodnight, Newton.”

“...night,” Newton says, almost as if on an afterthought, inaudible if Hermann’s hearing weren’t so good. He doesn’t think about how it sounds, knowing the other’s saying it to an empty room.

* * *

When they get back in from the roof—where Hermann’s been not _hiding_ , he refuses to call it that, but he escapes there when he needs some space, and given the last few days, he _does_ —Hermann’s arm is clutching Newton for support. The excursion, alone, perhaps, was not a good idea, but he refuses to admit this aloud. Newton understands—of course he does. He carries a Hermann that’s only two days out of date in his mind. This is something Hermann will have to get used to. 

“Here,” Newton says, suddenly; unexpectedly, and pulls off his jacket, draping it over Hermann’s shoulders. The sour scent of fear has seeped into it—it’s his black leather one, fixed up, but despite the physical damage being gone, the leather remembers his terror. _Hermann_ remembers his fear in triplicate—in scent, in mind, in memory. it’s a painfully beautiful thing, like much of Newton himself.

Hermann clears his throat. “You oughtn’t,” he protests, but makes no move to get rid of it, or force the other to take it back; just draws in a deeper breath to find the hints of newton’s cologne hidden deep beneath—an awful, musky thing that Hermann should not like nearly as much as he does.

The other’s gaze is knowing, and he says, softly, “I never knew.”

“Knew _what_ ,” Hermann asks, because he has no time for Newton’s crypticness. 

“The— _it_ ,” Newton says. “I thought you just. Hated me off the bat. Couldn’t for the life of me figure out _what_ I had done wrong, though.”

“Done wrong,” Hermann repeats, hollowly, and realises he knows. Ah. Dear. “I have excellent self-control,” he says; an attempt at reassurance, “I’m not about to rip memories from your mind. I’m no beast, Newton.”

“Never said you were,” Newton counters easily, and they’re walking closely; Newton’s jacket on his shoulders and his leg brushing Hermann’s every so often and Hermann has to grip his cane a bit tighter to try and keep his head clear, because he can practically taste the hum of the other’s blood, can hear, as ever, the beat of his heart, solid and warm, in his chest, and he has a _taste_ of Newton’s memories and that is almost too much and yet not _enough_ . “Does explain _some_ things, though. And I’m glad to know it wasn’t my fault.”

“Of _course_ it wasn’t,” Hermann says, and it would be sharp were it not faint. “I’d never blame you for that, Newton. Only try and—and protect you.”

They’re at the door to his quarters now, and Newton opens them; herds him inside. “I’m safe with you,” he says, softly, pushing the door closed behind him. “I know you, Hermann—you’re not an animal. You wouldn’t do that.”

He takes a step closer, hand leaving the handle of the door; and then another, moving into Hermann’s space, and if Hermann were often in the habit of involuntarily breathing, he thinks his breath would hitch. His hands are still. Newton’s rise; fall to his shoulders, then rise again to his face; gentle.

“You won’t,” he says, firmly, and his eyes are wide; trusting; gaze flicking to Hermann’s lips, quick as lightning, but never quick enough that Hermann doesn’t notice; doesn’t _feel_ it. “You _won’t_. I promise.”

His hand is steady on the nape of Hermann’s neck, but not forceful; asking, not demanding. 

“Oh, Newton,” Hermann murmurs, the words barely more than a whisper. How could Hermann ever say no to him?

Newton’s smile is wide; his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, when Hermann draws back enough to take it in properly; and he does; drinks in this sight, of Newton, here, in front of him, like he’s going to die tomorrow and Newton’s face is the last thing he’ll ever see.

“Oh, Newton,” he murmurs, again; and there is wonder to it, now, and he knows it; lets it stay and warm his words, seep into his very bones.

Newton’s hand falls to grasp his. “Hey,” he says. “I’m glad I found you.”

“What an inane statement,” Hermann scoffs, but it’s not in truth, and he softens within moments. “I’m glad of it too,” he says.

Newton squeezes his hand, the gesture small, and Hermann hopes he never stops doing it.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
